Operation: Driftwood
by Crushtor
Summary: Strange signals intrigue the team and lead Gwen and Owen to Russia. What will they find? Who is the Operative? Will the Doctor escape her sinister clutches? Will the Universe?
1. Prologue

Prologue

_From the Gallifrey Matrix: All TARDIS are equipped with trans-dimensional perforators. This enables users of craft to project information, such as images or sound, across parallel dimensions or "universes." This function however requires immense amounts of energy to fuel the necessary circuits to facilitate the tearing of space-time. Supernova-imminent stars or quasars are ideal sources from which to extract this energy. WARNING: The use of this device may lead to the collapse and/or extrapolation of personal timelines, which may allow possible Time Lord Incarnations - past or present, complete or incomplete – to appear within current space-time. __Use ONLY if absolutely necessary._

_In Flight, c. 2.1x10__6_

The eerie fluorescent orange liquid stared back at him with as much contempt as he did for it. He eyed it off as if it were the most grotesque creature he had laid his eyes upon, and he'd confronted Silurians, Sontarans and Daleks straight in whatever they had for a face. As he held it in front of his face his lips scrunched up like a kid being forced to eat broccoli or something much more sinister. "Do I really have to drink…_this…_stuff?" His similarly glowing counterpart nodded authoritatively with hands on her hips. "Doctor, it's good for you. You'll never get fit otherwise."

His white bouffant mane seemed to stand on end hearing that. Fitness wasn't in his vocabulary. He'd survived five quite unfit encounters and emerged unscathed, his ever-morphing face bearing his only scar. That and his wardrobe. Hesitantly, he guzzled the concoction down as if it were poison, holding his breath as it oozed all the way down. Mel's smile widened.

"There, was that so _bad?_" Her cheerful response irritated the Doctor to no end.

"That was _horrible!_ I'm ever so pleased that carrots are only indigenous to Earth and this repugnant cone-shaped…_thing_ can't be found anywhere else." He wiped to clean his mouth, however unfortunately not the taste that lingered within. The Doctor's eyes darted around for a mirror, just in case.

His gaze eventually wandered, turning his attention to the TARDIS console. He paced around it, gingerly caressing its surface like warmly embracing a long lost friend. The Time Lords threatened to take her away from him, but he knew they wouldn't prize it out of his hands so easily. Mel was sitting about, knocking her feet together like a schoolgirl at the end of a pier on a lazy summer's day. She let out a sigh. "Doctor?"

He regally turned to reply. "Yes?"

"Doctor," she carefully treaded, eyeing the floor more so than the Doctor, "who was that…_man_? That _evil_ man, who put you on trial?" The air took on a sudden chill.

His tender smile faded into something much more serious. _He was no more a man than a malicious beast, _he thought to himself, restraining his anger with all his power. With an inquisitive finger held closely to his mouth, he began to put delicately what he wished he could explain as coarsely as possible.

"That man," he began with a flourish "was me – _possibly_, me. When I regenerate I could take on many different guises, behaviors, many _proclivities"_ – he indulged himself with another liberal helping of his infinitive intelligence – "and that was one possible one. The Valeyard was a manifestation of a body and mind I could inhabit, under certain conditions and variables that may come to pass. The Time Lords used one of their plentiful _pilfered _devices to synthetically extract him from a possible timeline to prosecute me, with my remaining regenerations as …well, a _carrot on a stick." _ He shook his head in displeasure with that one.  
"I could be him, but then again, I could be someone much more pleasant and handsome…someone similar to me for instance." His fluorescent sleeves also wore his inescapable smugness. Mel's not often solemn face burst into life again. She began wagging her finger at him like a gleeful puppy.

"I'm so glad that he isn't you and that you aren't … well, him!"

"Yes, of course, and doubly so am I!"  
His smile retreated into himself as he gazed into somewhere less than joyful.

"_Though I could be," He_ thought._ "I could become something far more sinister, more cunning. Something devastating. If I let my emotions get the better of me, I could unleash a heinous terror across the universe…"_

He clapped his hands, deadening any wild and unlikely notions. Flamboyantly raising his arms to the roof and rolling his sleeves back, he prepared the TARDIS to embark on yet another journey.

"So Mel, have you ever been to Barcelona?" He said, impishly grinning.


	2. Chapter 1

I 

_Earth, 2009_

It was always quiet in the hub, Captain Jack Harkness thought – no – not so much quiet as devoid of sound, of human color. That's what it felt like to him, anyway. He didn't feel much these days, anyhow. His existence – not life, as he always put it – was like toil without sweat, a wound without pain. Most dulling of all, he would never experience death without grief. While shuffling papers across his cold steel desk, he glanced up at Tosh clacking away intently upon her keyboard, way too engrossed in this job for her own good. Gwen was slumped in the couch, burying her cares in a glamor magazine. Owen was hidden away behind the autopsy room, humorlessly playing a video game. Ianto…Ianto just kept to himself these days. Death would befall them all in time. He would just have to idly observe them transform slowly into corpses, unable to save them from their own mortality. Death was certain, but life was not. Neither of them was true for Jack, which brought him no great comfort.

Torchwood Three was at maximum operating capacity. Thursday, 21st of July, 2009 oh-nine-hundred hours. Nothing to report. Not to central command, not to anyone else. Not like he reported everything to them, anyway. Every week or so there seemed to be a disturbance, an errant scrap of action. It was almost as if it was programmed, as if an audience of curious onlookers were watching them precisely when something interesting happened. Still mulling over what kind of fib he should concoct to cover up another boisterous incursion (three dead, five wounded, over three million pounds in property damage – mostly foul-smelling residue) from the heavens above. His distant gaze at nowhere in particular was interrupted by Toshiko shyly standing at the door.  
"Jack, do you have a minute?" She asked, scanning her tone for anything that might cause offence.

Jack promptly shook himself out of his own coma of boredom.   
"Yeah, sure. Whaddya got for me Tosh?" he replied in his broad, West Coast accent. In fact, most of Jack was broad – you'd be hard pressed to find one part of him that wasn't.  
She awkwardly ventured inward. "We're picking up…something unusual. I think you'd better take a look." He whisked away, almost as if he anticipated her request. He was so quick she ended up following him back instead. Everyone else was still too busy to notice. She sat down and started to clack away furiously.

"Well, about three hours ago, Torchwood Russia picked up some feint signals – shortwave radio signals."

"I knew the Russkies were low on cash, but to be that _backward_? Jeez, I think they deserve some sort of award."

Jack was pleased with himself, evidenced by his wide grin. Tosh tried to fumble a laugh, but couldn't match his enthusiasm. She didn't take kindly to being interrupted. That, and she couldn't remember the Cold War precisely as Jack did. She wasn't there, after all.  
"Moscow thought they were just echoes of _our_ numbers stations, but, well, you can hear for yourself." She flicked the speakers on and relaxed a little. Jack inclined his head towards the computer, as if it improved his hearing. What came out was chilling: what came out were numbers. These sounds – if one could call them such - were like nothing Jack had ever heard. These numbers were rhythmically recited by a human voice drained of its soul, trapped inside a machine. They reminded Toshiko of the talking clock you could ring on the telephone. They sounded as if they were painted onto cracked and torn canvas, ripped up and put back together again._ Three. Nine. Seven, One, Five. Three. Nine. Seven, One, Five. Three. Nine. Seven, One, Five. _Two tones. _Six, Six, Four, Two, Seven, Two._ They were almost as hypnotic as they were mysterious. It left Jack suitably puzzled.  
"That isn't one of ours." He turned to Toshiko for answers.  
"I know! I don't know what to make of it."  
Gwen casually walked over, hands in her jeans like it was some kind of social gathering.   
"Isn't one of ours what?" She inquired with her long Welsh brogue, squaring up both of them for some kind of explanation. Ever reliable, Jack launched into one.

"Numbers stations. They're shortwave radio stations run by us to confuse the locals." He turned toward Gwen to display his enthusiasm with full effect. "They're just endless patterns of numbers repeated continuously to divert attention away from our business and onto real crazy stuff. We set 'em up at random, and they're gone as soon as some one picks one up on their home receiver. I think Tosh did a Japanese version, didn't you Tosh?"

"Yep…_roku, yon, roku, nana, juu,_ I think it was._" _Her memory was too good sometimes.

"I see…" Gwen fibbed. Jack continued apace.

"We built them during the Cold War – people were more preoccupied with being blown to kingdom come by the Reds than with alien abductions. We played up to all those fantasies of spies and political espionage. You know, that James Bond behind enemy lines sorta stuff. That's when they worked real well." His enthusiasm simmered, reflecting on times gone by. "Now people are into sci-fi, they're into comic books, _World of Warcraft_" – spitting it out as if it were some kind of curse word – "no one would believe in alien invasions even it was confirmed by CNN…a lot of people think that the Battle of Canary Wharf was just…" - he snapped his fingers - "Some rabid _Star Trek_ fans run amok." His expression grew colder. He knew damn well it wasn't.  
"But that doesn't explain how _this _one is operating. It isn't even one of our codes." He paused to look at Gwen. "This…this is just _spooky._"  
Soon enough Owen appeared beside them. His face was as sullen as everyone else's was bewildered.  
"Playing with the phones again Tosh? I thought that was Ianto's job." If they were any more acerbic, his words would have melted right through the computer monitor.  
"No Owen, there's an unauthorized number station operating outside of Siberia. We're stumped as to how it got there." Owen showed utter contempt for Tosh's enthusiasm as per usual, firing back contempt that countered her eager-eyed "keen as mustard" disposition.   
"Oh yes! Our kitsch little number stations. Thank _god_ for those – otherwise we'd have to pay the Beeb to make a show about us so people think we didn't exist. I'm surprised they haven't already actually. Might have to tone down the snogging, though." He looked knowingly at Gwen before zeroing in on Jack.   
"David Walliams could play you, even." Owen grinned. Jack thumbed his nose savagely at Owen – David Walliams didn't have as luscious an arse as he did. Or so he thought. Nevertheless, Jack took his mind to task. First, he had to discern at least what these number stations were about. Torchwood ran its numbers stations to deceive. Perhaps whoever – whatever – was transmitting these codes had the same intention. Jack couldn't get past the fact that a supposedly advanced alien race could be using such antiquated technology to attract human attention. It was absolutely ludicrous.  
"Tosh see if you can do a cryptographic analysis on the numbers. Let's see if they form any patterns and if we can't translate them into something more…English."

Jack motioned Gwen and Owen over. "Ok you two. We're gonna have to get some of our agents in the field to investigate. Get your fur coats ready, because you're going to Russia."  
Owen blurted a laugh out loud. "Russia!" He rubbed his stomach for effect. "That's rich. Well, considering all our alien invaders love to establish their beachhead in merry old Cardiff. Perhaps every other place is too exotic for them so they run home and ask for a refund. Maybe there's an extraterrestrial Contiki tour to the Millennium center-" Jack's patience ran thin.

"Keep a lid on the lip Harper. Get geared up. You both leave within the hour on the Transmat. Captain Piotr Gieorky will be your point of contact. Understood?" Jack fired at them with a brutish look. Owen and Gwen both nodded silently before dashing off to prepare for the trip. _This'll be a piece of piss, _Owen thought to himself. _We'll just fuck around for a half-hour then it's off to fuck some Russian birds. _He smiled wickedly at the prospect of it.


	3. Chapter 2

II

_Unknown, c. 4.1x10__31_

The TARDIS was spinning around a star not-so-quietly going supernova. The Doctor was projecting his image across dimensions. In a parallel world, Rose Tyler was standing before his ghostly image, slowly fading away that only weighed down her already sinking heart.  
"I'm burning up a sun, just to say goodbye." he murmured.

"I... Love you." Rose whispered as she wept openly.

"Quite right to." said the Doctor, bittersweetly smiling at his Rose. Words were like stones inside his throat.  
"And I suppose, if it's my last chance to say it... Rose Tyler…" But Rose hadn't heard the last words since the sun the TARDIS had been orbiting had burned its last. Tears flowed down his face, albeit not for long. Sirens blared and his eyes stared into danger.

"Oh-" He hadn't sworn in over five hundred years, but right now seemed right time to let one through. "_Shit!_" He screamed.  
"No, no, _NO!" _

The star's supermassive core exploded in a cataclysmic fury of energy, ripping apart sub-atomic particles and strings – the very fabric of the universe. All of the universes, in fact. The unrepentant lashing of cosmic force threatened to do the same to the TARDIS before it collected itself together. Frantically, the Doctor was desperately trying to save his sinking ship from the pull of a rapidly forming black hole. Pulling the internal stabilization switch to reverse the polarity, he noticed a figure out of the corner of his eye…could it have been?  
"Hello, handsome." The slim, black clad woman said to him. Her hands on her narrow hips oozed a sort of malevolent confidence. Disappointed, The Doctor stared at her, puzzled beyond belief at how she had materialized into his flight control deck. His brows firmly chanced, he coolly demanded how she ended up in his ship.  
"Let me correct you there. _Our_ ship. This ship is mine as much as it was yours. I am you. _Well_, not really."  
The Doctor, seized by fear, processed the information she'd provided for him. He staggered backwards, each step heralding another terrible shock. That _wa_s him. His mind clouded by compassion and feeling had allowed this being...this, thing to appear. He tried to hold his head together lest it fell off.  
"Damn…the supernova, it must have folded all future space time into a monumental bifurcation point, increasing chaos and you…somehow manipulated it. The timeline you're supposed to be in shouldn't exist!" He started shouting to himself, his anger exploding by the end, his hand resting on his head in disbelief. His flight of revelation ended as his face painted itself staid. He violently shook his head.  
"You're not supposed to be here." She slunk over toward him. He was still eyeing her off as if she were some trick of the imagination.  
"True. I am not. But I am a possible you. You collapsed your _own_ future world line. It looks like you've regenerated a couple of times as well." She emphasized _own_ as if it was beyond his grasp.  
"Naughty naughty, _Doctor_." She purred, shaking her finger at him.  
"That's not possible! That disobeys every single law of causality-" – she cut him off.   
"Of which you are its greatest violator. Come on Doctor; don't give me that surprise act. You know as well as I that projection across a parallel universe causes entropy to increase to near-infinite levels. Such a soft touch…I'm so glad your foolhardiness has facilitated my great escape. I'd have been rotting in that cursed Jovian jail if it wasn't for your careless error." She taunted. Despite her attack, his mind lamented inside of him._  
"It wasn't careless, it was necessary! I had to say goodbye to my Rose! I _had_ to!" _  
"Whoever this Rose was, I sincerely hope she was worth destroying this star to cleave faults through space and time. Was she your servant? Concubine? Tell me at least you had a _drop _of our superior blood pumping through that weak frame of yours. Your humanity sickens me."  
The Doctor's bones quivered in terror, more for her cruel nature than for her abilities; thoroughly so since she referred to him as if he were already dead. Leisurely, she revealed a metallic rod that glistened in the dim light of the control deck. _A sonic screwdriver,_ the Doctor surmised. She was a Time Lord, after all – but how? He wondered, "_Does she have psychic…_"  
"Yes, I have developed psionic abilities. I was trained for conquest, built for domination - unlike you. Frittering your time away on harlots and hedon... What is it with your fascination with that _pathetic_ type zero species anyway?" She palmed a spherical button on the console, the Doctor squeamishly realizing it was the information terminal. How could she interface with the navicomputer directly? The eye of harmony? _Was _she?  
"The Valeyard should have locked you away when he had the chance. It would have toughened you up." She held the device out in front of her, thrust it toward the Doctor and clicked it. The Doctor's face contorted, searing in pain. Helpless, he was completely immobilized against the wall of his own TARDIS. She began to set a course as the engines began to steam and whirr.  
"Now, if you'll oblige, I'll be taking the…" - she corrected herself – "our, TARDIS on a journey back to Earth." She said with a sinister glee.  
"You'll…never get…away with this," The Doctor struggled to gasp out of the corner of his mouth.  
Her sleek hair bobbed gently as she slinked up to the Doctor, her dainty frame more imposing than ever. She grabbed the Doctor's face and angrily spat in it, her scorn covering his crushed face.  
"You've been watching too many of those Earth 'moving pictures' for your own good, Doctor."  
Leaping toward the console, she pulled at a lever with an almost orgiastic fervor.  
"It's time to get back what's mine."


	4. Chapter 3

III

_**Torchwood General Standing Order Alpha One**__: Upon detection of the extra-terrestrial known as the "Doctor"; the Doctor's vessel the TARDIS; any traveling companions connected to him; other Time Lord(s) and their vessel(s); all Torchwood personnel are compelled to make every effort and resource available to capture both his person and any technology that he may be utilizing for his own purposes. All other missions, tasks and/or projects are to be immediately considered a secondary priority in the event of this occurrence. Any Torchwood officer found to deprive Torchwood of these resources will be immediately relieved from duty, discharged and/or detained. Any Torchwood officer found to be aiding and/or abetting the Doctor, withholding information to his whereabouts or possessing captured Time Lord Technology without the knowledge of the Torchwood Institute will be considered high treason against Her Majesty's Government and offenders will be terminated without caution._

Captain Jack had arms folded and wore an expression that meant business. He stood in front of the Transmat console, struggling to remember how to work the damn thing. Gwen looked quintessentially Star Trek, one foot slightly ahead of the other, shoulder width apart. Owen was slumped over as if he was carrying an anvil in his bag. Jack wordlessly hit a button. As the machine's ground plates crackled and hummed into life, the clean, tiled surrounds of the hub dissolved into a squalid bunker, grimy and dank like the depths of a sewer. Gwen wanted to reach her nose to block out the smell, but was too startled by how the Transmat beamed her from one place to another in the blink of an eye. Her mind was still back at the Hub, it seemed. Owen was already a few paces ahead, eschewing her cautionary baby steps toward an imposing iron door. She acted as if she was pinned down in the middle of an alien firefight. This place was definitely not the scene of some frantic intergalactic battle; she had been in enough of them to know better.   
"Owen!" she nervously called after him. Irritated, he turned around.  
"Hurry up, Cooper! You're supposed to be a cop, remember? Grow some stones already."  
"…says the man who screamed like a girl when he saw a mouse." Owen's face looked as if he were mortally wounded.  
"I thought it was a gigantic rat, you can't expect…" Both of them almost jumped out of their shoes as a tall, long coat clad man approached them on the other side of the dark corridor. With one in his pocket and the other casually smoking a cigarette he fumbled around trying not to burn himself before offering his hand in friendship.  
"_Dobriy vecher_, Doctor Harper, Miss Cooper. Welcome to Torchwood _Rossiya. _I am Captain Piotr Gieorky. A pleasure to meet you both._"   
_Owen took his hand, meeting his gaze before eyeing him up and down. Broad shouldered, chiseled jaw, a casual yet forceful baritone, and hair cropped short at the back and sides – he looked almost exactly like Captain Jack, it was almost as if it were some kind of colossal joke. Perhaps Torchwood cloned him and installed local versions of him all around the world? If they did, it wouldn't be surprising. Gwen extended her arm to accept his amity, all while trying to balance her bags to stop them slipping down her shoulder.  
"You are here to investigate these sounds you have been hearing. They are like ghosts that rattle chains after dark, no?" He brushed open one of the doors with a feminine touch, tossing the cigarette aside. Gwen and Owen glanced at each other momentarily, not talking but saying more than words ever could.  
"So, Capt_in, _where did Torchwood pick you up from?" Owen posed to him facetiously.  
"I was on KGB, Paranormal division. I used to try to out snoop Torchwood sometimes, but they had more money. It was natural for me to work for them after the Kremlin broke us all up. I like this place. It's much more…spacious." He waved his hand in a dramatic gesture into a vast room. Torchwood Russia was stately and cavernous, twisted and entangled in wires and unearthly devices. Gwen suddenly felt relaxed amongst its organic feel. Compared to Torchwood Three, it reveled in shards of light that crept in through the roof more often than not. Owen paused to think if he too slept in a giant underground lair like Jack did. The similarities were starting to give him goosebumps.  
Gwen was broken out of her trance of fascination, palming the glowing odds and ends by Giorky slamming down the Enter key on his keyboard. At least, it looked like an Enter key.  
"Here are your ghosts. They are being projected near the…Tunguska river. Near the event that happen there long ago." He gave a little laugh. "How very spooky."  
Owen rolled his eyes. "So, what's the deal _Comrade_, we drive up in our jeeps and check this out?" He motioned toward the transmat. "Or do you have something _quicker._" Gwen was less than impressed with his usual smug bravado. He thought he knew better. She knew damn well he had no idea. Gieorky, on the other hand launched his own salvo into the pissing contest.  
"We have light … aircraft. It had been captured from race of aliens that landed in 1947. KGB counter-intelligence stole it from American government facility in south-west United States. I think you may know about it."  
Gieorky smiled boyishly. Owen's face slumped back into a scowl. Gwen half expected him to check his crotch to see if his equipment had survived Gieorky's onslaught. She chuckled anyhow.  
"You will come with us, Doctor Harper, yes?"  
Gwen and Owen picked up their bags and reluctantly snaked their way past wires and other ghostly bits and pieces to the hangar. They were confronted with a huge sleek, cylindrical aeroplane resting on the concrete floor. It was beautiful; intricately patterned with zigzags and other exotic lines. Gwen's mouth gaped. Gieorky held up a remote control at it and pressed a button. The craft beeped as if it were a small hatchback, yet roaring into life as if it were a lion on the hunt. Light blinded Gieorky's guests as the channels illuminated, their hands shielding their eyes to no great effect.  
"Will we be hopping in, ladies and gentlemen?" Gieorky shouted.  
As the doors closed behind them, Gieorky hovered momentarily before zooming toward Tunguska at lightning speed.   
"Buckle seat belts and have tray tables to upright position!" Gieorky loved that line even more every time he said it.


	5. Chapter 4

IV

"_The way of war  
is the way of deception."  
- _Sun Tzu_, The Art of War_

Bathed in white light and faced by two graying men, The Operative sat in the lotus position meditating in silence as they conferred over her next mission. The Director was sitting at his desk as his Adjutant poured over the details of her upcoming flight to Jovia. The Operative never quarreled with her superiors. The last time she did that, she was the foolhardy Doctor and was promptly severed from the Syndicate. He didn't agree with their "methods" anyhow. Her feline face winked to look over the binary suns of New Gallifrey. The tall red grasses swayed gently in the breeze as robe-clad Time Lords dipped among the reflecting pools, were dazzled by the entertainment simulacrums that played beneath their manufactured sienna sky. They had no idea that their new found hedonism had a price. A price she was willing to pay. She heaved a sigh, crestfallen at the fact that she would never lay her eyes upon her obliterated homeland. New was not better. New was untamed, unexplored, and dangerous.  
The Time Lords were now officially pacifistic, non-interventionist people according to the Government. After eliminating the Daleks in the Time War, they had no reason to continue fighting. The primeval struggle had ended. Peace and order could return to the universe. New Gallifrey devolved into a demented arcadia, satisfaction at their many achievements freshly painted on the faces of the populace. Why not? They had proven themselves the superior race. For ten million years they had been proving it by merely existing. They hadn't styled themselves Time _Lords _without something to lord over.  
The Operative and the elite few like her were entrusted with keeping the Time Lords at their rightful place as supreme race of the galaxy. They deserved their crown and throne. A victorious superpower deserved its spoils. If it were not for another Operative, the Doctor would have unleashed hell on the Time Lords. Beholden like a slave to the scum of the galaxy, he was the hero to the intellectually poor, the mentally handicapped. He helped races that couldn't find their own nose even if they were given a map and a compass. He was defending their right to _exist_. "_They had no rights",_ the Operative always thought. If they did, all the flotsam of the universe would always be clawing at the heels of Time Lord power. Especially Humans – why did the Doctor cavort so wantonly with a Type Zero species such as them? Throughout their history they could not even harness the power of their own Sun correctly. They depended on planetary resources – mining black rocks like ants to power their primitive wheeled vehicles for over two thousand years – how absolutely backward! It took them another three _hundred_ millennia to construct a faster-than-light ship. And two more after that to take their first trip through time! Time Lord younglings on the Gallifrey-that-was genetically engineered their first TARDIS in elementary classes – and it took Humans five hundred thousand years to even contemplate it! How pathetic! The Operative had no sympathy for unmotivated and brainless races.  
If it wasn't for another brave operative, the Doctor would have let the Daleks roam free, free to spread their terror and undermine Time Lord Supremacy. He would rather sacrifice his own race than let his morals go astray. Where was his sense of pride? Could he not repress that slovenly human side of his to take his rightful place among the echelon of the gifted? Fortunately, the hero of the Time Lords detonated a resonance cascade and obliterated Skaro once and for all. The Doctor's conscience overwhelmed him and he had refused. _Refused to save his _own_ people from destruction!_ He had no concept of survival of the fittest.  
It was precisely why the Rassilon Syndicate was created. An elite cadre of Operatives loyal to the Matrix and Time Lord Government working tirelessly to prevent the Time Lord race from resting on its laurels. They were charged to holdfast their place as the universe's shining jewel among the roughshod scrap. Their mandate was simple: Maintain hegemony through any means necessary. Their orders similarly straightforward: to seize all technology that could potentially threaten their security. That meant _everything_ was theirs. Although Galactic Confederacy was unaware of it, all of their worlds were beholden to the will of the Time Lords. Like puppets, they only lived through the benevolence of their masters. They were all expendable. Complacency is weakness, the Operative always thought - complacency which others can and will exploit. Even though most Time Lords had forsaken their illustrious past by taking on civilian names, envy and greed kept them at the head of the pack – and that's all their enemies would ever let them have. The Operative and the Syndicate didn't only rig the game; they wrote the rules and the rules were simple: the Time Lords always win. The Operative lived for keeping the Time Lords great, and vowed to never forget that the maintenance of their dominion over the galaxy was paramount. She would never forget, unlike that sanctimonious pariah, the Doctor did. Didn't he know that emotions are the first step toward destruction?  
She was broken from her trance by the Director. "Operative, we have a mission for you. Doubtless you have already deduced this by the virtue of your sitting in my office." She grinned.  
"Of course sir, it's my business to know what's going on." She gave him a confident smile. Unfortunately for her, The Director's counterpsi powers were far too well developed to glean anything from him.  
"Excellent. The presidium has decided to give you another assignment, since you've earned back out trust so … efficiently." His words had a particular sting to them as they buried deep under the Operative's skin. Her eyes darted downward as she tried to hide the memory of her last project. It was a brilliant conception that unfortunately, ended in failure. Her Manger Initiative was to genetically grow TARDIS in the hearts of Time Lords from birth – giving them complete mastery of their universe. Prototype A worked splendidly. Test Type B went rogue and never returned. He began worshipping false idols and even gave himself one of those ridiculous human names…  
"We've computed the exact location and time of the next… _leak_ into the Lost Universe." His brow furrowed as struggled to think up the right word for whatever a momentary transdimensional rip in the fabric of space-time could be. The Lost Universe was a nightmare story among the Syndicate. In the Lost Universe, The Time Lords, save one or two, were extinct. The Operative's mission, it seemed to her, was to double their population. Or was it?  
"We want you to establish a beachhead and apply our mandate to all the worlds that exist there."  
"Yes sir."  
"Depart for Jovia. Our contact will rendezvous with you at the prison complex in five standard days."  
She leaped out of her chair and stood ramrod straight, bowing to the Director.  
"Yes sir. I will not fail you."  
The Director narrowed his eyes.  
"Failure is not an option. We want him alive and we want him quickly. You are dismissed." He waved her away. Without him realizing, she had already left his office. His Adjutant offered his opinion.  
"Do you think she will stay loyal to us once she's in the Lost Universe? There's no way of knowing what might still exist there."  
"To be honest with you Adjutant…no, quite frankly, I do not. However, in case of this eventuality, we have safeguards to ensure her allegiance." he said, gravely.  
The Adjutant bowed and probed no further. He knew full well what the Director meant. He didn't like it one bit.


	6. Chapter 5

V

"In all my traveling throughout the universe I have battled against evil, against power mad conspirators. I should have stayed here. The oldest civilization: decadent, degenerate, and rotten to the core. Power mad conspirators, Daleks, Sontarans... Cybermen, they're still in the nursery compared to us. Ten million years of absolute power. That's what it takes to be really corrupt." – The Sixth Doctor, defending himself whilst on trial

Toshiko Sato was hunched over a computer, haphazardly attaching a communicator to her ear while tying back her sleek brunette hair into a pony tail. Sometimes she couldn't come to terms with the fact that computers were built to multitask and humans were just deluding themselves if they tried. Jack was standing in the middle of a lit platform, invoking the spirit of Hugh Dowding; the mighty baron in charge of the Royal Air Force Fighter Command. He had the right uniform for it at any rate. Standing at the ready with arms crossed, he waited for his connection to start marshalling his troops in the field - all the way in Russia. He hadn't been to Russia since a bunch of sailors got pissed off one time and started running amok. He faintly remembered the first cannon blast that spilt his tea.  
"Connection established, Jack." Toshiko said.  
"Thanks Tosh." Jack tapped his communicator to his ear. "Hey guys, is it cold enough for you?"  
Owen was the first to bite. "Jack, it's so cold in this god forsaken hell-hole I'm not sure my bollocks are still attached."  
Gwen bit back. "What bollocks are you referring to, exactly?" Jack couldn't help but chuckle. "Report back when you've reached the target." Owen gave confirmation.

Thousands of miles away, Owen and Gwen stood amongst a thicket of charred tree remains, all fallen to the ground as if a giant had stomped on them. Wind whipped at their faces, covered partially by a hood of fur that Gieorky had insisted they wear in the light aircraft. Lucky for them they didn't decline his offer. They rubbed at their sides for extra warmth as they shuffled toward Gieorky, who had no reservations with exploring the icy wilderness.  
"These trees have not grown back since the incident," Gieorky shouted above the howling blizzard that was forming. "Torchwood was first to investigate this but all results were inconclusive." He held out a palm device that glowed blue and beeped every so often. He pressed another button, and a cone light shot out from the aircraft, the white frost sparkling underneath their feet.  
"Come, the transmitter is about 500 yards." He pointed south, toward a ring of trees that marked the epicenter of the blast. In the middle of that graveyard-like forest, all that remained was scorched earth. Gwen's nose turned red as tears streamed down her face from the stinging ice in her eyes. She now realized why Russians had such a fondness for vodka. They glacially made their way to the locus of the blast, Owen and Gwen trudging every step of the way. Giorky ran ahead, bent over and picked a small box from underneath the burnt ice.  
"What is it, Captain?" inquired Owen. Gieorky slid his fingers across the gunmetal box, a red light pulsating slowly. He was flummoxed. "This, Doctor Harper, is source of transmission."  
"What, _that _bloody thing? Bullshit."  
"No bullshit Doctor Harper, my scanner shows that this is it. Deploy your analysis equipment to determine further results."  
"Okay, let me get this straight," Gwen proposed, unimpressed. "We've come all the way to Russia to track down a mystery 'number station' and fly in the _bleddy_ Roswell spaceship and once we get to the heart of it – the climax of this refrigerated goosechase, those creepy sounds are being made by that little box you've got your hand?"  
Giorky shrugged. "It would appear so."  
Gwen rolled her eyes. "_Right." _  
"I don't agree with you often Cooper, but I'm with you on this one, this is a load of absolute _shit!_"  
"Restrain yourself, Doctor Harper. As soon as your tests are conducted we may depart." Gieorky obviously didn't want to take any from Owen. With hands on his hips, he may have protested. Eventually he started on building the mobile analysis unit from the parts in his backpack. He fumbled around like a child trying to cook a three course dinner.  
"This doesn't make any _fucking _sense." Owen muttered to nobody in particular.  
"I am going back to the craft, to bring some heaters." Gieorky announced in his authoritative Slavic voice.  
"Thank fuck for that." Owen grunted.  
"I knew you would be appreciative, Doctor Harper." Gieorky grinned. In the middle of attaching one of the legs to the mobile analyzer, Gwen stopped dead.  
"Oh-wen…come…take a look at this." Her voice quivered. In the distance, a sound like a metallic screech roared across the landscape. She rose slowly like a drowsy cat from a slumber and started to walk toward the sound. Gwen was drawn to the industrial-strength cacophony, entranced by its sudden arrival. Owen tensed up. Before he knew it, Gwen was standing before a blue box rematerializing from a time unknown.  
"Gwen, get back here!" Owen shouted, rage flowing from his mouth. "Gwen, get the fuck back here! You don't know what you're doing!" He saw a door open. In the blink of an eye, Gwen disappeared. Owen scrambled toward the TARDIS, each step a new lesson in agony. He knew what the TARDIS was - every Torchwood officer knew. General Standing Order Alpha One was etched onto the rim of their eyelids.

_All efforts must be made to capture the Doctor._

Now his routine hunting trip had turned into a full blown seizure mission.

_All Torchwood personnel are compelled to make every effort and resource available to capture both his person and any technology that he may be utilizing for his own purposes._

He finally reached the wooden box, standing stately in the pale moonlight beyond the aircraft's glow and winter's frost. He banged on the doors. Gwen was expendable now.

_All other missions, tasks and/or projects are to be immediately considered a secondary priority in the event of this occurrence. _

"D-Doctor! Cease and desist! You are hearby-" Before he could finish, he was confronted by a slender woman, dressed in tight black coveralls and a scowl on her face. Owen staggered backward, speechless. Owen had confronted a Weevil and felt nothing. Now, for the first time in his born days, he was literally paralyzed with fear.  
"Don't you _ever_ call me that." She whispered to Owen. She stuck out her arm and her tool that subdued the Doctor – her sonic disruptor - with it. Owen took the full force of the blow. Suddenly the world spun and looped back around him, confusion escalating like a rush of steam through a train's funnel. Crouched on all fours, his mind struggled to catch up to the rest of him. He weakly grabbed at his stomach. Straw-like fingers grappled with the unpleasant fact that bile rose from his gut and pounded into his chest. Saliva gushed into channels around his teeth. An abyss formed between his lips letting that viscous, putrid fluid to escape and splatter across the wet cold ground. Drained, he limply rolled over to his side, gasped for air, every breath a test of will against desperation. Whimpering like a stray child ripped from his mother, he floundered about for the one thing he needed most – a one way ticket out of this nightmare. "Get me out of here," Owen painfully whispered, to no one.

Back at the Hub, Jack stared into the monitor, dazed, entranced. Tosh called out to him from across the room; he took no notice. He still didn't move even after she shook him and tossed her to the ground. Ianto rushed down from reception, panic flaring in his eyes, pleading for orders. Nothing. Sirens blurted, alarms flared and doors rushed from their moorings into lockdown. The words within his gaze immobilized him, he remained as stone. His eyes transfixed, he re-read the glowing, flashing, red words that confronted his being over and over – the words that shook the core of his everlasting soul. The words read:

_Scanners detect presence of __**Time Lord.**_

He was not calm at all.


	7. Chapter 6

VI

Gwen Cooper, Police Liaison for Torchwood Three was savagely bruised. Her battered legs only served to cause her greater agony. Her mind ceased to analyze and only wanted for her mouth to scream. Lying like a fetus on the TARDIS' cold hard grates, she could see a lanky, sharp-dressed man suspended in a glowing miasma of blue smoke; crucified and immobilized. He looked at her with a grim expression, almost as if he were staring into her soul. His mouth moved but he could not talk, but those eyes said more than words ever could. Sad mahogany circles pierced through her pain and soared straight for her heart. She shuffled around, attempting to get a bearing of her environment. Cold footsteps reverberated around her ears. _"Wait a minute," _she pondered. _"This spaceship is…"_

"Bigger on the inside. Yes, I've heard that revelation countless times before. I won't explain how, because your feeble mind wouldn't be able to even begin comprehending the theoretical machinations behind it." The Operative stood menacingly above her, hovering around her like a vulture waiting for death.

"I can read minds too. Now Gwen Cooper, you will _tell_ me where my property is, since you are putting up some kind of psychic resistance." She was impressed, albeit much as she could be at the primitive talents of a human being. Impressed or not, this Gwen Cooper was starting to become a nuisance.

Gwen started to laugh and spat blood to stop from choking. She painfully lifted her head to meet the Operative's fierce eyes and outstretched hand, clutching her sonic disruptor.

"I don't know…" She paused for an excruciating draw of air. "What you're talking about."

The Operative growled. "Wrong answer!" A groan of pain howled around the cavernous spaceship as the Operative swiftly and mercilessly booted her in the stomach. More blood pooled beneath Gwen's grimy face. "The genetic material. The severed hand from that pathetic disgrace I've strung up over there."

"Look, I don't know who you are or what you want. I'm just a police liaison, I don't have any information." she slurred. Her hands were too weak to even reach her stomach to console herself.

The Operative slid a control on her Sonic Disruptor and a harsh electronic tone ascended into supersonic frequencies.

"Fine. So you want to be obstinate. I have all the time in the universe."

She pointed the device at Gwen. Squeezing it hard, Gwen twitched, writhed and struggled as the fluorescent beam tore at her insides. Tears streamed down her face as her mouth gaped wide, unable to scream. Her eyes said more than her words ever could. There was no pain greater in the world. She flipped Gwen over with her foot so she could look her in the eyes. Gazing intently, the Operative suddenly flashed a wry smile.

"I am patient. I have many higher settings that can shatter bone and pulverize internal organs. If you will not talk, someone else certainly will. Perhaps this Rhys individual you seem to care so much for."

"Don't you…dare." She managed.

The Operative reached down and grabbed her hair to whisper in her ear. "Then give me the coordinates to your Torchwood Three and the genetic material – and I might spare this _Rhys_."

Rhys may as well have been a curse word, the way she spat it out. Gwen recited a string of numbers. The Operative was so awed with her human captive that she refrained from using the Sonic Disruptor on her again. "Perhaps they aren't as stupid as they look." She chuckled. Most other species would have guarded state secrets with their lives. Self-preservation was the paramount priority of any superior race – a former Syndicate director told her that before he disappeared at the Battle of the Cruciform. Soon enough, The TARDIS whirred into life and was once in flight again.

Drumming her nails across the console, she looked up at the Doctor suspended in his temporary prison. "I am so looking forward to seeing this Torchwood Institute," she pondered, "and finding out why it is causing me such utter misery."


End file.
